


When Hawkes Mourn

by Galaxy_Raven



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Depression, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Other, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:21:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galaxy_Raven/pseuds/Galaxy_Raven
Summary: A short series exploring how my Hawkes deal with grief and loss differently and the friends who comfort them.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Isabela, Fenris & Hawke, Fenris/Female Hawke, Hawke & Merrill (Dragon Age), Hawke & Varric Tethras, Hawke/Merrill, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24





	1. Too Bloodied to Feel

Hawke took the punch, using the force of it to roll away, springing back up. Her nose was bloodied-broken again-blood streaming down her face in dirty rivulets.

She grinned, barring her teeth at the three off-duty templars in front of her. She would have fought them if they were on duty, would have gone to the Gallows and fought every templar she saw, would get Bethany out of there, but these assholes were closer and she needed this fight, needed the physical pain, needed the control it brought.

Hawke laughed harshly and raised her fists, bending at the knees, staying loose, ready for anything.

But Hawke wasn’t ready for Fenris to interrupt her perfectly good alley fight. Three on one was decent odds, but he had to muck it up for her. Charging in with his sword drawn and frightening the bastards away.

“What the fuck are you doing? I had them right where I wanted them!” Corva yelled, half-ready to throw a punch at Fenris, her rage boiling over, coiling inside her and needing the outlet, the release.

_Maker be damned, she needed to FEEL something._

“Enough, Hawke. Fenhedis! You’re drunk and they had weapons. Where’s your bow? Your armor?”

_Armor would blunt the hits, soften the pain…arrows were too distant._

“Don’t need them.” Hawke spit, blood and saliva hitting the pavement. “What gave you the right to interrupt?”

“I didn’t want to have to drag you to the abomination’s clinic. Again.” Fenris said, matter of fact, sheathing his sword on his back. 

Hawke gritted her teeth. “I would have been fine. You should have stayed out of it.” She started walking away, but Fenris stopped her, gently grasping her shoulder to get her to halt, before removing his hand. He knew her well enough to know she didn’t appreciate the physical contact. “What!?”

“I know it’s the anniversary of Carver’s death, Hawke. You don’t have to be alone.” His voice was soft.

_Fuck._

Hawke clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms. He remembered.

_Fuck._

Her shoulders slumped, caving in around her as she avoided his gaze. She didn’t need his pity, didn’t need his knowing looks reminding her how she failed. She was the eldest, she was supposed to protect them, Father made her promise…

The rage shifted to shame and bitter loathing.

It should have been her. If Carver had been here, Bethany wouldn’t be locked in the gallows and mother wouldn’t looked hollowed out, like wraith in place of the strong-willed woman she grew up with. 

“I _am_ alone.”

“No, you aren’t.” Fenris said. When Hawke didn’t respond, he sighed and motioned for her to follow him. “I doubt you want to go home. You can stay with me tonight.” Seeing the look on her face, Fenris added. “I’m not offering out of pity, you would offer the same to me.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at him, considering, before giving a curt nod. She didn’t trust her words right now, tears were already building, but she clamped them down before they could fall and make her more pathetic than she already was.

They walked in silence through the city, up the stairways from Lowtown until they reached the mansion.

It was starting to show the signs of neglect, a broken shutter here, cracked or missing window there. People would start complaining soon, that it ruined the ambiance or some shit like that. They liked to keep the decay inside behind closed doors, hiding behind facades of opulence and success.

_Carver would have…fuck._

Corva’s fists curled in again, anger rising. She looked to the door, thinking if she ran, she could find a fight or two with some mercs in darktown, there were always scuffles happening. She could pummel some sense into the world.

“Fight me.” Fenris said, breaking her from her spiraling plotting.

“What.” Corva looked at him, stance loose, ready, sword sheathed, still, but…

“If you are looking for a fight, then fight me, Hawke.”

“I’m not going to fight you, Fenris.” She didn’t want to break his face, feel his blood on her hands. 

“Probably wise. It is unlikely you would land a hit anyways.” He said mockingly, taking a disinterested stance.

“Why you!” She did now! Corva wanted to whip off that smug arrogant look off him.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe the bitter need to cover her grief, but she swung first, fast and hard.

Or so she thought. Her fist just glazed his arm. He moved so fast, elegant, yet powerful. He also had the advantage of not downing a bottle of questionable alcohol that night.

Hawke swung again, but missed.

“Hawke, are you even trying?” He taunted.

She growled and launched her self at him, trying to grapple him, finally feeling her knuckles bruise as they made contact…with this breastplate.

“Fuck!” She swore, but kept at it, losing herself in the movement, the dance of it, Fenris staying out of her reach half the time, the other half taking hits that hurt her more than him.

All too soon, the rush left, and she stood panting, body aching.

Carver and her, they used to spar like this…something like this anyways. In the backyard in Lothering, pushing each other to be faster, teasing and laughter between each hit.

_Fuck, she missed him._

“Did it help?” Fenris asked, the false challenge gone, was it ever really there?

Corva pressed into the bruises on her hands, blessed pain, as she answered. “Yes.”

She could almost hear Carver laughing. A flutter of a memory, the sun shining on her back and Carver’s snorting laugh, offering her a hand up from the dirt. 

“…no.” She whispered, closing her eyes. The damned tears were back.

Fenris nodded.

She was so tired of it all. No matter what she did, it went wrong. She lost and lost and lost. The world just took and took.

“I could use a drink.” Hawke said. She was starting to sober up and damnit if she would let that happen.

“I’ve got some wine.” Fenris offered. She knew the wine, the specific vintage. It meant something that he would offer it to her, but she couldn’t find the words to thank him, for the wine, for the fight, for fucking caring at all. She just nodded. “I’ll get it from the cellar. You can sit on the couch, if you want.”

He padded off and left her, alone with her thoughts, a dangerous place to be. She took his suggestion and collapsed on the couch, more of a settee really, the only one Fenris kept up, in case he had company.

The fire was low and it all just, caught up. No matter how much she pushed, it didn’t change things.

Her eyes felt so heavy…

**

Hawke must have drifted off, she was leaning over the armrest of the couch, blonde hair loose around her face.

She looked peaceful.

The scowl she often wore gone and she looked almost…fragile. Not a word Isabela would ever use to describe Hawke. Hawke, whose tongue was as sharp as her arrows and twice as quick.

Bela had tracked Hawke to Fenris’s mansion, after Varric mentioned what the day was. She had a bottle of rum she won off some smugglers, the good stuff and figured they could drink it all and forget what happened, before Hawke got into too much trouble alone. 

Fenris was stepping up from the cellar when she entered, giving her a look she couldn’t really place, and he let her take over, saying Corva was by the fireplace and he would be in his room. 

Bela didn’t know what to do now. She imagined getting pissed drunk, not finding her friend-her sometimes lover?- passed out.

She sighed and set the bottle down on the table. Fenris had a couple throw blankets on the nearby chair, so Bela grabbed one and draped it over Hawke. The low firelight played off of Hawke’s face, dusted with freckles and flecks of blood. Her arms were curled into her chest, her knuckles bruises and raw.

Bela could leave, but…she found she couldn’t. For some reason, she couldn’t leave Hawke like this, looking alone and vulnerable.

So, she just plopped down on the floor next to Hawke and pulled a blanket over her legs, resting her head back.

Maybe it was better this way, what could she say that would ease Hawke’s grief?

Even if she didn’t have the words, she was there.

Isabela was just guarding Hawke. It didn’t mean anything. They were just friends and they had each other’s back.

That Isabela tucked Hawke in when she shifted and moaned painfully in her sleep didn’t mean anything. That she brushed her hair back from her face, it didn’t mean anything. That she felt something stir in her heart didn’t mean anything.

She repeated the denial as she, too, drifted to sleep in Fenris’s parlor. 


	2. Trees for Remembrance

Dirt caked her palms, covered her knuckles, as Hawke patted down the loose soil around the sapling.

It was so strange, a hollow feeling that she hadn’t shook yet, maybe never would. Like her roots had been cut, dug-up, leaving her parched and withered, gasping for water.

Her hands clenched, grasping into the dirt, another tear falling. She wiped it away, leaving a streak of earth across her face, not wanting to cry anymore. Crying only left her tired and feeling more lost than she already did.

Hawke stood, shakily, wrapping her arms around herself, looking at the garden. Merrill looped her arm around Hawke’s back, leaning against her, without a word, just a stalwart presence.

It was Merrill’s suggestion, years ago now, to plant trees in remembrance. Even though her father and sister’s bodies lay in Ferelden, their memorial trees stood tall, branches providing shades in the summer.

Her mother’s tree looked so small in comparison. 

Leandra’s body had been in pieces, violated and twisted to a mad man’s horrid grief and delusion. Anders, Merrill, and Aveline had worked to gather her body, for burial, finding as many pieces as they could. Hawke couldn’t bring herself to look at her mother’s face again, leaving the shrouded remains covered.

A few days after, Hawke and her friends carried her mother’s body out to the coast and prepared a pyre. Hawke had planned to light it with her magic, but she couldn’t hold a flame, something so simple. She had failed mother again.

Isabela and Varric made a torch quickly, helping Hawke stand long enough to light the pyre, supporting her. Sebastian said a few words of the Chant, Hawke didn’t remember what they were, but it was the thought that counted, it was what her mother would have wanted. Bodahn comforted Orana, both of them crying, sharing kind words. Everyone said a little something, everyone but Hawke.

Words were easy for her, usually. But now, the words stuck in her throat, feeling wrong and tight, meaningless and insufficient.

They all stood vigil with her late into the evening, watching the flames burn and then die down into ashes.

Fenris…he did not crowd Hawke, but he was always there. Bringing her a waterskin and making sure she drank; he was the one who gathered the wood for the pyre and he was the one who stood guard, a few feet from Hawke, where she sat in dutiful watch. 

Kitty hadn’t cried then. She couldn’t. It didn’t seem real to her. It wasn’t until she returned to the house, passed the door to mother’s room that she broke and just cried, tears that seemed unending, picking herself up enough to stumble into her bed.

…

That was a week ago.

Merrill had arrived this morning with food and the sapling, with hugs and soft words that washed over Hawke and covered her like a blanket, gave her something to hold onto, gave her hands something to do, a purpose. Merrill who flitted around and prepared everything, giving Hawke tasks to keep her hands and her mind busy.

The ashes had waited in an urn on the fireplace mantel, judging her every time Hawke passed. The same ashes now buried in the roots of the sapling, giving life from their death, from her mother’s death.

Mother always loved the garden. She had often sat under the trees, on the bench they had moved there. Reading letters from friends or relaxing under a cool breeze. Hawke could close her eyes and see it still, her mother glancing up with a smile or a look of exasperation.

But the tree was there now. Just a little tree.

“Hawke, are you ready?” Merrill asked.

“Yes.”

Merrill stepped beside Hawke, holding out her hand. With hands clasped, they set their other hands onto the ground near the tree and poured magic into the roots, coaxing it to grow, to rise up and lengthen, branches extending with a creak. 

Creation magic wasn’t Hawke’s strong suit, but with Merrill’s guidance, the sapling grew into a tree, not quite as tall as the other trees, but years of growth added in a few minutes.

“Do you want to say a few words, Hawke?” Merrill always knew the questions to ask, her kind and gently prompting smile opening the dam of words that cluttered up Hawke’s head, tumbling out in a rush.

“Mother, I’m sorry I couldn’t save you, that I was late. I never did have good timing, did I? I hope you like your place here, beside dad’s tree. It’s your favorite spot, where you had a good view of the garden from the shade. I’ll make sure the leaves are raked up in the autumn, I know you want the garden to look neat for visitors. Not that there will be many visitors that would care now that you are gone…I’ll try to make you proud, you, dad, and Bethany. I’ll look after Carver, as much as I can, even if I have to fight the wardens to do it. I don’t even know if he knows yet, if the letter would have reached him…”

Maker, she wished she could tell Carver in person, could hug him, face his judgement face-to-face. The letter had been written and rewritten so many times, she wasn’t actually sure which one she finally sent, the words all felt flat. How do you tell your brother that you let your mother die, in a letter?

“Take your time.” Merrill said, encouragingly.

“…I miss you, mother. The house feels different with you gone, empty. I’m not really sure why I even have it, it was for you that I bought it. I mean, I’ll keep it, I can’t abandon the trees, and there is Orana, Bodahn, and Sandal to think about. I doubt I’ll ever be the lady you wished me to be, but I’ll…make an effort. I won’t let Kirkwall forget the Amells.” Hawke took a breath. “I hope you found peace with them.”

“I think she did, Hawke. Your Mamae found peace at the end.” Merrill gave her a hug. “Do you want to go inside? I brought some food.”

“I think I’m going to sit out here a little longer. You go on ahead. Thank you, Merrill, for everything. Ma serannas.”

“Of course, Hawke.” Giving her another hug, Merrill added. “Atish’an, lethallan.”

**

Fenris stood in the doorway, not sure if he should disturb her. Not entirely sure what he was doing here.

Again. Intruding on her grief and having little comfort he knew how to give.

Merrill had met him inside and sent him out here with a tray with two glasses of water and a tray of fresh fruits and vegetables and warm breads. Almost shoving him towards the door really, saying something about Hawke appreciating seeing him.

He had no idea why she would, not after what he did, how he left.

Hawke was sitting on the ground, near the trees, her knees tucked up under her chin, her back to him.

But he had the tray, so he walked carefully towards her, setting it down beside her and waiting for her to say something.

She was quiet, the silence so loud. Hawke was always rambling, talking to herself or the plants if she was alone, going on about this or that, her voice filling the stillness.

“Hawke? Merrill sent this for you.” She didn’t respond, her gaze distant. Fenris took a step back, to leave her alone, she didn’t need him here.

“Please stay. There’s enough food for two.” Her voice was stiff, hesitant, the warmth missing, even if the sincerity remained. Not the bubbling force that roped their rag-tag group together. But the invitation echoed with need and Fenris could not leave it unanswered. 

Fenris sat, crossing his legs, facing the trees, the tray of food between them.

“Thank you.” Fenris said.

“For what?” Hawke finally looked at him, blue eyes focusing on him.

“For…I don’t know.” Fenris said. He was messing this up, trying to fill the silence Hawke had left. “For the food?”

Hawke gave him the ghost of a smile. “Merrill made it.” Of course she did, he knew that. “But you are welcome, all the same.”

She took a raspberry, glancing at Fenris. He took a piece of fruit at random and she nodded, looking back to the trees, watching the wind blow through the branches.

They spent the afternoon there, sharing some food and silence. By the end, Hawke looked…more at peace. Not done grieving, no, but more at peace, more whole and real. The woman he knew was still there. Given time, she would laugh again, smile, be Hawke again. 

The whispered thank you Hawke said as he left that evening twisted in his gut, wishing he could do more, but not knowing what. That he still loved Hawke, even though he couldn’t be with her, made it worse. 

Fenris hoped it helped, him being there.

He would do almost anything for her, if only he knew what would help. 


	3. Painting Ghosts

“Hey, Hawke, you in there?”

Varric’s voice jarred them, like they were waking up from a hazy dream, unreal and immaterial. How long they had just been sitting there, staring at the canvas, but not painting, Hawke didn’t know, but they shook themselves mentally and called out, “I’m here.”

Their voice caught; it was scratchy. Hawke had a glass of water around here somewhere, but…oh, it was empty…

That’s right, they had meant to go fill it.

When was that?

“Shit, Hawke, how long have you been up here?” Varric asked the question, looking around the room, Hawke’s studio. Normally, when they painted, the shutters were open, letting in the natural light. But, Hawke just couldn’t find the energy to open them. It seemed unimportant, the sunlight a bright lie.

Varric didn’t share their thoughts though and he opened the first ones, sending a stream of light onto Beau’s face, making them blink and squint. The shutters banged open, startling a few birds, their panicked cooing and feathers rustling as they flew away.

“You scared the birds.” That mattered, right? Hawke would feed the birds sometimes, so they would gather around the windows.

“Sorry, Hawke, but, shit, you can’t go on like this. We’re all worried about you. Daisy is worried about you. You haven’t left the mansion in weeks.”

“I have to finish this.” Hawke said, not meeting his eyes, just gripping the brush in their hand tighter. 

“What is it?”

“A family portrait. From before, back at the farm in Lothering.” They traced the lines they had made, the curve of Bethany’s smile, the cut of father’s jaw, Carver’s tousled hair, their mother’s bright eyes.

Simpler times, happier times.

“Ah, I see.” Varric said. There was an edge to his voice, something not usually present. He understood loss, of course he did. But it didn’t mean he knew how to deal with it better than Hawke.

“I promised mother I would do this, but I never got around to it, always put it off, never thought I could get their expressions right. I was always so much better with landscapes or animals… But, now they are all gone and it’s just me, painting ghosts.”

Varric stared at the painting. “You’re still here, Hawke. Where are you in the picture?”

“Am I?” Hawke questioned. There was a blank spot in the canvas, between Carver and father, a place they would be, painted over after each attempt to add themselves. Every version was a bitter reminder of what they weren’t, their eyes haunted, they couldn’t remember what they looked like, when they were happy, when their family still lived. “I can’t get it right, I look like a stranger every time I try. A bleak stranger who doesn’t belong.”

After a moment, Hawke’s words hanging heavy in the air, Varric clapped his hands, loudly, startling Hawke. “That’s it, we’re getting you some food and out of this room. And no, I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“But-”

“Nope, paint brush down, this is an intervention.” Varric plucked the brush from their hand, setting it aside, before offering his arm to them.

Hawke rose shakily, a little light-headed. They had to almost bend down to take his arm, as he led them through the house.

The house was clean, Orana and Bodahn had been keeping up on things, they assumed. Varric said it had been weeks, could it really have been that long?

Time slipped and they were in the kitchen. Varric had them sit down and he bustled around the kitchen, opening every cabinet and muttering. He could reach everything, since it was set up for Bodahn, but this might be the first time Varric was in the kitchen for anything.

Beau watched him, a fond thin smile tugging up, a muscle memory instilled over the course of their friendship. Varric finally settled for a bit of bread and a glass of water, after staring at the pantry of ingredients, he seemed at a loss to make anything else. He seemed to have forgotten that he couldn’t cook to save his life.

Varric set out two plates of bread, two glasses of water, and sat down across from Hawke.

“Now, since you have been cooped up, I’ll catch you up on all the important gossip.” He started, cutting a piece of bread and chewing into it, waving the piece around to emphasis his points. “Corff got a new haircut. Now you might be asking yourself, ‘Varric, is this really news?’ But, hear me out, you haven’t seen it. It is the worst haircut I have ever seen! And that’s saying something, because you remember that woman…”

The words themselves didn’t matter, but it was the normality of it all, just their friend telling them the news. Hawke picked up their glass, took a drink and listened, let the words wash over them, the ebb and flow familiar and grounding them to the present. 

**

Merrill paced in front of the door, wondering if she should enter. She had asked Varric to stop by, to try to talk to Hawke. He had managed to get them out of the studio at least, Merrill could barely get them to acknowledge her.

Merrill had taken care of the preparations, Hawke just nodding their assent to questions. They buried Leandra’s body in the family crypt, her ashes really, next to her parents, Hawke’s grandparents that they had never met. A small service was held at the Chantry, for family and for Leandra’s close friends, fewer than Merrill realized. The way she had talked, Merrill thought she had lots of Hightown friends. 

Beau had sleepwalked through it all, coming home afterwards and going still, retreating to their studio and Merrill had to force them to remember to eat and drink, to do anything really, the empty vacant loss shadowing their eyes with such utter blankness that Merrill had to fight off tears every time she saw it. Her Hawke, her vhenan, lost inside themselves, lost in their grief and Merrill couldn’t pull them free.

Merrill’s ears flicked at the sound of Varric’s laugh behind the door, in the kitchen. The sound propelled her forward and she open it, catching sight of Hawke, leaning against the counter, legs crossed beneath their chair, with a spark, a life to their eyes that had been missing for far too long.

“Hawke…” The name sounds like a pray, a plea, hope tinged with longing.

“Daisy! We were just talking about you!”

“Hi Mer.” Hawke’s voice was stiff, rusty, but there was feeling in it, traces of it.

“I was thinking it would be great to go outside, it being so warm, just go out and sit on the patio, but now that you are here, we have to!” Varric said, reaching over to clap Hawke on the back. “Daisy needs her sunshine.”

Merrill wanted to hug Varric for putting the idea out there, it made it easier to slip her arm through Hawke’s and nudge them to the door.

Beau felt so cold and her vhenan was never cold. On the way out, Merrill grabbed the old patchwork quilt they kept in a basket and once they hit the lawn, dropped Hawke’s arm long enough to spread it out on the ground. She coxed Hawke to lay down, easing beside them, still worried she might spook them and send them spiraling back into themselves.

“This is perfect!” Varric said. Merrill shot him an appreciative smile.

“It is nice.” Hawke whispered. They raised their face to the sky, closing their eyes, the light playing off their dark skin, soaking it in, like a flower turning towards the sun.

Merrill loved them so much.

A pause and then Varric started, “Well, as much as I would love to stay, I’ve got to meet with my publisher. Oh Hawke, you are going to love this next one, just you wait. I’ll let you have a sneak peek.”

They turned to look at him, blinking against the light. “Take care, Varric. And…thanks.”

“Watch out for Daisy, Hawke. I’ll be by later and if you are back up in that studio, I’m dragging you the Hanged Man.”

“So you won’t drag me to the Hanged Man if I’m not in the studio?” They asked.

“Well, today at least. The place isn’t the same without you, y’know.” Varric said with a wink. “Rivaini misses you, too.”

They all did, Merrill most of all.

“I’ll…try, Varric.” They said. Merrill reached out her hand and curled her fingers around their hand, intertwining them together. Hawke responded with a faint squeeze and they watched Varric saunter back into the house.

They laid there in the sun, in the quiet, together.

“I’m sorry I went away.” Beau whispered. “I didn’t mean to.”

Merrill rose up, leaning over Hawke, pressing her forehead to theirs.

“Hawke, you have nothing to apologize for. I’m here for you. Whatever you need.” She meant every word.

Hawke caressed her face, tracing the lines of her vallaslin, from memory, their eyes still closed. Merrill leaned into the touch, savoring the feel.

“I know. I don’t deserve you.”

Merrill pulled back, gently chastising them. “Yes, you do, Hawke.”

A faint whisper of a smile crossed their face, opening their eyes, bright amber that focused on Merrill. No other words, but they bid Merrill to lay back down beside them and they curled up against each other in the afternoon sun, falling asleep together.

As they drifted, Merrill thought, _Creators, I love them. May I be able to help them, may they find the light again._


End file.
